


QUO MODO DEUM

by psycho_pomp



Category: GUN GODZ (Video Game), Nuclear Throne (Video Game)
Genre: Alien Culture, Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Codependency, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Protective Siblings, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:15:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29378376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psycho_pomp/pseuds/psycho_pomp
Summary: There is something holy, they say, in how a sandstorm scratches at your eye. There is something holy in how lightning stabs the sand, in how blood drips down sharp claws, in how chitin cracks when bent or stabbed or shot. Every true venusian reaches for those scraps of divinity, gathers them up and holds them close. And every true venusian knows that the holiest of them all, perched upon a throne of sandstone and fulgurites and bloody bodies and broken chitin, is the Gun God.And, like the scraps of divinity, every true venusian reaches for the Gun God's throne, too.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	QUO MODO DEUM

**Author's Note:**

> before you begin, a little mood music for our prologue: [I Did A Terrible Thing](https://youtu.be/IrszzjRA_C8)

“50 molecrowns.”

“No way. You’ve gotta be fucking with me.”

“Sorry, I know it’s a lot. We lost a lot of our supply whe-”

Tuk slammed her fist down onto the leatherworker’s jockskin desk, making the tools rattle violently and the skittish cube jump a few inches into the air. Her claws dug into the leather as she leaned over the counter, towards the quivering venusian. Probably a builder or some other kind of heathen from how much a softshell he was.

“Listen up, shithead. I don’t have 50 fucking molecrowns for a roll of gauze. But you wanna know what I do have?”

The leatherworker backed up a little, hand feeling around on the shelf behind him, never breaking eye contact.  
“Wh-what?”  
Tuk screwed up her eye in a smile, slowly pulling a shotgun out from the holster around her waist. The leatherworker froze, letting out a small squeak of fright. Tuk chuckled.

“Thaaat’s right. So here’s my offer; you give me the roll of gauze, and maybe that shitty little pistol that’s just barely out of your reach, and I let you keep your life, and 5 of my molecrowns, just because I feel bad for what a waste of chitin you are.”

Tuk leaned back, the barrel of the shotgun pointed clean at her victim’s pinprick-sized pupil.

“Does that sound alright? And, just making sure you’re aware, if you say no, you die.”

The leatherworker’s eye darted around the room, clearly looking for a way out of the holdup, before taking a deep, shaky sigh as he realized there was none.

“A-Alright, just, calm down, please.”

He slowly grabbed the pistol off the shelf, gently setting it on the table, before pulling out the box of gauze and retrieving a roll, never taking his eye off Tuk the whole time. Tuk looked over the goods, before holstering her weapon and tossing the pistol and gauze in her backpack. She dug a hand into a pouch, and flung the handful of teeth into the leatherworker’s face, making him flinch and lift a hand to shield himself. With that, Tuk spun on her heel, a hand raised in parting.  
“Pleasure doin’ business with you, fuckwad.”

As you know, the world is a cruel place. The world is cruel, people are vicious, life is unfair, and there is nothing anyone can do about it. To argue otherwise is like attempting to convince a bird to not fly, a snake to not bite, a fire to not burn. The world is full of cruel, vicious people, and this is a good thing, because, as you know, the world will always be cruel and vicious by it’s nature; those that are not cruel and vicious will inevitably be burned and bitten and left behind by those that are. But by becoming as cruel and vicious as thy neighbor, you fight against them, instead of against nature. To fight against nature is an agonizing battle that you cannot win. The only outcome for fighting against nature is to suffer unimaginably, and then die. So raise your white flag, surrender to nature, to life’s unfairness, and live another day.

So sayeth the Gun God.

* * *

ЯOTOR was doing as they always did, perfecting their latest chrome contraption, when they heard it; the telltale crash of shattering glass, coming from the bottom floor. They rolled their eye. Always at the most annoying possible time. They were _so_ close to being done with this one.

ЯOTOR snapped their fingers, and in a starburst of white light, they were on the ground floor, a grand maze of mirrors. They could see the offender now, a bedraggled rectangle with still-wet blood splattered on their face and broken glass around their feet. Must’ve just gotten done taking out their travelling buddies, ЯOTOR mused, before calling out to them.

“Yoohoooooo! Mister bigshot usurper! How are you today?”

The rectangle jerked, whipping a wicked-looking rifle towards them and pumping a few shots. The sound of mirrors exploding into clouds of razor-sharp shards was cacophonous, and the rectangle recoiled to cover their eye. ЯOTOR laughed, and restored the mirrors with another snap of their fingers.  
“That was cute! But you didn’t answer my question. I said, how are you today?”

The rectangle cautiously stumbled through the maze, hand in front of them to feel for what was a mirror and what was open air.  
“I-I’m fine. I’ll be better when I kill you and take your place.”

ЯOTOR laughed again, floating through their creation unimpeded. They knew all the routes through it by heart.

“Ooh, is that a Maxwellian dialect? You really came from a long way out just to tussle, didn’tcha?”

The rectangle stopped for a second, as if trying to process just what had been said to them, before continuing on.

“Yeah. Yeah, I have, I guess.”

ЯOTOR clicked their tongue.  
“Shame that it’s gonna end here, then.”  
The rectangle lifted their rifle again.

“You’re not-I’m going to kill you. I’ve been through too much to die here.”  
ЯOTOR scoffed, and waved a hand dismissively.  
“Yeah, you and every other two-bit softshell with a peashooter who drags themselves here. You’re not the one who’s gonna kill me.”

The rectangle growled, and fired a round directly at ЯOTOR. The mirror directly in front of the rectangle exploded, showering them in broken glass and leaving a few scratches on their carapace. ЯOTOR chuckled.

“Case in point. Face it, pal, you don’t got long left to live.”

The rectangle lowered their rifle, and futilely continued to try to navigate the maze.

“And how do you know that?”

ЯOTOR’s eye screwed up in a grin. There it is.  
“I’ll show ya!”

With a final snap of their fingers, they appeared behind their prey. The rectangle tried to turn to face their assailant, but was stopped by a silver axe lopping them in half, spraying the mirrors in black blood. ЯOTOR broke out into giggles, wiping the tear away from their eye. Gets ‘em every time. With that annoyance out the way, ЯOTOR teleported back up to their workshop to finish their project. It was good to be the Gun God.

The Gun God, as you know, is the absolute height of Venus; perfect in their invulnerability to all but the weapons of their fellow venusians. By their nature, the Gun God rules alone, a beautiful tower of near-insurmountable strength stretching far above the horizon and the bloodied scrabbling of the weaker folk. As you know, the Gun God serves a vital purpose to Venus as the divine engine of nature itself, fueled by pride, greed, and lust for power. The Gun God takes these and uses them to draw in the weak, the soft, the unfit to live, and grinds them up. Only those powerful and holy enough to beat such a perfect machine at it’s own game are fit to take it’s mantle for themselves.

So sayeth the Gun God.

* * *

Le stared at Caj’s sleeping form, their fingers tightening on the hilt of the knife.

They had to do it, they knew. 

Caj was too much of a liability to be left alive.

It wasn’t that he was dead weight; far from it, in fact.

He wanted to be the Gun God.

And that was why Le had to kill him.

He wanted it more than they did.

When they got to the Gun God’s lair, he’d kill them.

He’d kill them without hesitation.

It was only logical.

It was him or them.

They knew this.

They _knew_ this.

So why were they hesitating?

Because he’d taken them in?

Taken care of them when they were hurt, in exchange for their unquestioning servitude?

Because he was genuinely good company?

Funny, and bold, and charismatic, and genuinely friendly to them?

Handsome, though Le would never admit to thinking so?

Le’s grip on the knife loosened.

Maybe they didn’t have to do this.

Maybe they could convince him to let them stay as they were, protect him from usurpers when he took the throne.

Maybe…

…

No.

No, it would never work.

They were being so stupid.

So sentimental.

So _soft._

It had to be this way.

Le held the dagger in a trembling hand.

It had to be this way.

They crept closer to Caj.

It had to be this way.

They sucked in a breath.

It had to be this way.

The blade plunged clean into Caj’s eye.

He didn’t even have a chance to scream.

Love chokes, as you know. It curls it’s little barbed wire fingers around your lungs and trachea and it squeezes, squeezes, squeezes until your brain is left muddled and all you can breathe is blood. It’s made of fire, of white-hot steel, branding and cauterizing as it wraps itself around and inside you, marking you with it’s touch. Once it’s got you in it’s grip, it’s incredibly difficult to escape from it, as you clearly already know; it never stops tightening, and it burns the hands if you attempt to bend or break it yourself. Best to douse it before it touches you, lest it make a nest in your pulmonary artery and burn your alveoli to charcoal.

So sayeth the Gun God.

* * *

And as Tuk tended to the infected stab wound she’d been hiding well…

And as ЯOTOR set their newest creation loose in the second level of their lair…

And as Le cleaned their blade and wept over someone who would’ve killed them…

As the engine of nature roared and belched out more clouds to embrace and smother the beautifully blood-spattered planet of choke-me-out love…

In a small, rundown town that has the nerve to call itself Zhibek, in a dark alleyway, a young venusian shaped like a triangle sequesters himself away behind a crumbling wall, a bundle of leather in his arms, and it hits him that his parents really aren't coming back.

**Author's Note:**

> follow @taranchula on tumblr


End file.
